


And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

by neonsign



Category: Persona 4
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:03:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10913937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonsign/pseuds/neonsign
Summary: Apop, a spark, the radio comes to life and he freezes, holding his breath and listening with everything he has. Static noise fills his empty apartment. And then she’s there. Her voice crackles through the speakers and she wants to know, “Is anyone even listening? Or am I just talking to myself?”





	And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

The voice first comes to him when he’s alone. Alone like he’s always alone, waiting like he’s always waiting. A _pop_ , a spark, the radio comes to life and he freezes, holding his breath and listening with everything he has. Static noise fills his empty apartment. And then she’s there. Her voice crackles through the speakers and she wants to know, “Is anyone even listening? Or am I just talking to myself?”

His lips part but nothing comes out. However much he would like to assure her she’s not alone, and by extension neither is he, there is no way to get his words across. The radio can only receive and even then, he doubts he could speak if he tried; surely his voice has dried up by now.

“If I am reaching anyone,” the radio says, “I hope you’re doing alright. I know things are rough out there.”

She talks a little while longer about little things, joking about how nervous she is. He sits back on his heels amongst his tools, rolling a screwdriver between his hands, and stares at the radio. The only thing keeping the tacky blue plastic in one piece is duct tape and an inordinate amount of hope, but it holds the signal just fine.

It’s the latest in a number of projects to try and occupy his mind and hands. A new challenge once he got bored of building toy robots, of folding paper into animals he hasn’t seen for so long he’s starting to forget, of reading musty books be knows back to front.

“But I’m here, alright? You guys have me! Call me, uh – Himiko. I hope we get along.”

And now, after silence for so long, the apartment is filled with so much noise that it sets him on edge.

There are more urgent things that call for his attention. Practical things, things that serve a purpose. He needs to go fishing. The cold months are coming and he needs to be prepared for when his parents return home.

“Now, I’m not going to be able to broadcast all the time, so… I’ll have to figure out a schedule. It would really mean a lot if you guys would tune in. And you should keep in mind radio goes both ways. I’d really love to hear from someone! I’m not expecting everyone to have access to a broadcasting station, but I’ve got CB here too. I’ll be listening to frequency–”

Radio waves worm their way under his skin and up his spine, dragging fingers against his nerves and pulling them like strings on a puppet.

He shuts the radio off.

 

* * *

 

Empty streets make the katana strapped to his back nothing more than a prop; the arcing buildings on either side of him, vacant seats in an amphitheater; him, an actor playing his role. There is nothing stalking him. Nothing haunts the fog, yet still he remains on alert. What a world that he would prefer being prey rather than nothing at all.

His boots hit the pavement at a steady rhythm and he fidgets with his coat’s zipper. Sticks a finger under his gas mask to scratch an itch.

There’s a song stuck in his head. He can’t remember the last time that happened.

Curiosity and masochism both prompted him to listen to the radio before he left. Just to see if she was keeping it up this week, too. A record was playing, something older than himself, and too much time had been wasted huddled next to the radio, getting lost in a dead man’s crooning.

Pretending like it matters that he got distracted gets him to the grocery store in record time; his irritated stomping carries him to the side alley rather quickly. Without power, the automatic doors won’t open and he feels too guilty to break the glass when there’s another option, even if that option is breaking the lock on the side entrance. It’s less of a visual mess.

He turns the handle and yanks the door past where it always gets stuck in its frame. The sound echoes down the alley and something orange darts by and his hand is halfway to his sword before he notices it’s just a fox. Curiosity again gets the better of him and he follows it into the street, looking left and right to see where it could have escaped to.

For the second time just as many weeks, he hears a voice belonging to the living.

A laugh like wind chimes ripples through the air. The way he crouches down and holds his breath, it may as well be the sound of artillery. He peeks around the corner of the building. Two guys walk down the street; one short with light and curly hair, and the other, tall and speaking with a rough tone, but not unkindly. Both of them are laden with gear and so wrapped up in one another that they don’t notice they’re being watched. They’re not wearing masks. They’re not on guard. There are no predators on these streets, after all.

They round the next corner, then they’re gone.

And he’s alone again.

The world catches up quick. Fast forward to the present, an infodump of sound and motion, and he blinks. A sharp breath out and the walls of his empty lungs must stick together because he can’t get any air back in; his breath comes in shallow and quick and not _enough_. The sword slips from his fumbling fingers and falls to the ground and steel on concrete is so noisy, the gasping noises he’s making are so noisy, someone’s going to hear and he remembers his mother telling him once that he needs to be quiet, good boys are quiet, good boys don’t cry, but there’s no one that _can_ hear him. He’s alone again, alone like he has always been, and God, he can’t _breathe_. His head is spinning and he’s drowning on dry land.

There’s too much moving too fast and it’s all he can do to cover his eyes and block it out.

People. Those were people, the first friendly human beings he’s seen in so long. And he just let them go. If circumstance hasn’t doomed him to a life of solitude then his own nature is going to make damn sure he has no other choice.

 

* * *

 

If it’s kept sealed from oxygen, rice has a shelf life of ten years. Coffee, instant ramen, dried herbs and spices – two to five. Meals become a measure of time as much as a means of survival and time is running out. More and more, the coffee and ramen he takes home have already started to rot.

A cool breeze ruffles his hair and he tucks his chin into his scarf. A gentle song floats across the rooftop from where the radio sits on an old metal chair. He flips his knife around and saws at a head of broccoli, severing it from the plant and putting it with the others in his basket.

There’s only so much his rooftop garden can produce. If he moved to the country then there would be more options available to him but he can’t leave until his parents come back. Even his fishing trips are pushing it.

The song ends and Himiko announces, “That was These Foolish Things by Ella Fitzgerald. It’s nice, isn’t it? A little sadder than what I usually try to play, but I think we need that sometimes. We can’t be happy all the time, right?”

She laughs but it doesn’t sound like she thinks anything is funny. Once he’s done with the broccoli, he gets up and moves to the carrots.

“And I think we all miss someone right now.”

Bringing the radio up here was a mistake, but one he didn’t stop himself from making. Batteries, too, are a dwindling resource. There’s no electricity to make sure they’re stored at the right temperature so a lot of the ones he finds are starting to leak. Sadly that’s also what makes it okay for him to waste them listening to this broadcast; if he doesn’t use them then no one will.

“Don’t laugh, alright? But I think I miss the idea of people more than I miss people.” There’s a short pause in which her laughter fades away to nothing. “See, the truth is, I was… I was bullied a lot in school and…” An even longer pause. “Uh, anyway! That’s all in the past, right? We’ve got to look forward! Me and all of you, we’re in this together. So that’s why–”

This time the pause goes on for so long that he freezes halfway through uprooting carrots. That’s radio silence, not just her stumbling over her words.

Then he catches himself. Dusts off his hands and goes back to harvesting.

Lately his head has been filled with stupid ideas and it’s that radio’s fault. They’re nothing but idle fantasies that he knows will never come to pass but they’re there, and that radio put them there. It hurts, toying with the idea of companionship that will never happen. Being alone is easy after years of practice. It would be best to go back to that.

He picks up his basket of carrots and broccoli and heads over to the radio. He’s halfway to the power button when he hears another voice.

“Hello?”

It’s not Himiko’s.

“Hey everyone!”

But that is.

“I’ve got some really good news!”

 

* * *

 

“My name is Naoto Shirogane. I’m currently working with several others out of Iwatodai, housing and feeding any who find their way to us. We have food, shelter, electricity, and plenty to go around. When Himiko’s broadcast was brought to our attention, we thought it best to let her and everyone listening know: you are not alone. We’re here, should you need us.”

 

* * *

 

He tosses his book across the living room and rolls over to face the back of the couch. With the sun finally setting, it’s too dark to continue reading. There are candles, of course, boxes of candles and matches stolen from stores all across the city, but he can’t be bothered to get up. His stomach rumbles but he can’t be bothered to feed himself. He wraps his arms around himself but he can’t be bothered to pretend they’re someone else’s.

As tired as he is, he knows that sleep won’t come. It hasn’t for the last few days.

The radio is silent. The apartment is silent, the city is silent. There is nothing.

The radio, bright blue like a toy, and he is such a child. Filling the apartment with robots and books so he can play pretend. It’s time he grow up and stop waiting for things to get better. Mom and Dad aren’t coming home. They left him like everyone left him.

A cold wind pushes at the windows. He pulls a blanket over himself and closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The first morning he wakes up to frost, he takes a walk. Dragging himself out of bed requires a herculean effort but it’s a lighter load than his guilty conscience. He needs to get out and do something, even if that something is just a walk. He starts to regret it when there’s nowhere to go. There really is nothing for him here.

Iwatodai exists in the back of his head now, some kind of beacon on the horizon. He could make his way there, offer his gardening skills in exchange for a place to stay. Make himself useful.

That would mean really giving up on his parents.

He fidgets with the strap of his gas mask and watches his reflection in store windows as he passes. He stops on the third when there’s someone else looking back.

The stranger on the other side of the window looks like a deer in headlights for a moment until his face splits into a smile. He rushes to the door and onto the street.

“Hey! I didn’t think there was anyone still living here. Or are you like me, just passing through?” The stranger waits for an answer but when nothing comes, he takes it in stride. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the store. It’s a record shop. “This your place? I can leave if it is, put everything back. Whatever other people say, I’m not a thief.”

He laughs and it’s met with nothing. The silence finally starts to affect him; his smile strains and he crosses his arms tightly over his chest.

“Not very talkative, are you?” Still, no answer. “Hey, uh… are you alright?”

Nothing.

By this point the stranger is starting to look uncomfortable but he still just won’t stop smiling.

“C’mon, talk to me. Give me something; you’re the first human being I’ve seen in like two weeks. What’s your name? And… what’s up with that mask?”

His name. What his parents used to call him and what he repeated to himself when they left. When the silence pressed in and he needed to know he exists because people are what make people people. The different personas you wear like skin to everyone you meet, you take those away and you’re left with nothing.

His heart pounds and his stomach churns, but he forces himself into composure as he lifts his head. It’s easier from behind a mask.

“Souji.”

“Souji,” the stranger repeats with a breath of relief. “Nice to meet you, man. I’m Yosuke.”


End file.
